One Less Seam
by Darknightdestiny
Summary: [Oneshot][Vincent x Tifa] Fragile are the ties that bind us. A gift for The Tiramisu of Impending Doom.


**One Less Seam**

Rachel "D" Winslow

For  
The Tiramisu Of Impending Doom

Tifa had never been a morning person. She had always been a pleaser by nature, and because she spent most of her time during the day straightening up the bar and entertaining and caring for the children, not to mention corresponding with Cloud so as to help him keep tabs on his business when he didn't much feel like hanging around, if there were ever something she wanted to do for herself, she would have to wait until everyone else was asleep. Night time was when she took her showers, read a good book, or indulged in music or film; with her it was always late to bed and late to rise. As a matter of fact, her nocturnal tendencies and busy life were the main reasons she kept Seventh Heaven's business restricted to the evenings.

Then, Vincent had come to stay. Slowly but surely, the two of them had found blessed relief in each other's presence, and their comfort level had steadily grown from there. Neither one of them were completely open about every facet of their lives, but they both found that they enjoyed the company, even when there was nothing to talk about. They had stopped shrinking from each other's touch, something they both had initially done because each thought that the other had feared themselves, and no longer let moodiness dictate their actions. They had both spent enough time in their past walking on eggshells, and both thought they deserved a break from that fearful feeling.

Yes, things had become comfortable; so comfortable, indeed, that Tifa had no qualms about jumping into Vincent's bed whenever she felt like it.

She had fallen asleep in his room one night while talking to him, not really caring that he'd been absorbed in a book at the time. Her day had been tiring, and she was looking for a temporary respite from the earlier strain. So she had waltzed in, unannounced, but certainly not unwelcome, and flopped down next to the gunslinger on his bed with all the grace of a behemoth. He had merely raised one eyebrow at the exhausted sigh of hers that immediately followed, and smirked a bit.

"I take it you had a rough night?" came the muted inquiry.

This had launched a score of complaints from her, including the children's mess, perverted patrons, lousy tippers, not to mention the mundane yet necessary household chores she had yet to catch up on. He did not ask her why she chose to sit with him, if she had so much still to do. Instead he waited patiently, his eyes never leaving his book as she spoke, a sure sign that he was listening to her, but not actively. It wasn't as if he didn't care; he had only heard the same story several times beforehand, and felt it was his right to be passive. He understood that all she needed was to expel her frustration; far be it for him to draw it out with an empathetic question or two. Experience had taught him that the sooner she was done, the sooner she would relax, and he need not give her any more reason to think on it.

He had been absorbed in a particular chapter of his book when she'd entered, and had no want to read it several times, one after another, in order to register it. Naturally, he did not notice that Tifa had stopped talking until he heard her start again with a renewed energy, her tone changing from weary to quizzical. It was only then that his subconscious brought her pause to the forefront of his mind, effectively breaking his concentration, and he feared for a moment that she had been waiting on an answer to a question he hadn't even realized she'd asked, or that he might be asked one just then, and not have a clue as to what she was talking about.

"What's your book about?"

So she hadn't busted him...yet. There was still time for that.

Vincent readjusted the book in his right hand, as he attempted to turn the page with his left. While he very much enjoyed Tifa's company, she tended to use a greater deal of words than he, and she tended to use them at the most inopportune of moments. He had hoped, he knew vainly, that a short answer would suffice.

"...human frailty."

"Care to expand on that?" The beginnings of her words sounded like musical laughter, the smile in her voice made evident by the short huff of air that escaped as she began to speak.

His brow furrowed slightly, and he bit his lip in concentration, her sudden joviality making her even more of a distraction. "It is about courage and cowardice, and why they go hand in hand."

Tifa tilted her head, narrowing her eyes in interest as her smile grew. "How so?"

Vincent let his lip go from where he'd begun gnawing at it, and both his eyebrows rose up as he recounted the lesson, as if it was the simplest truth. "One cannot have courage without some measure of fear. Otherwise, it is not courage, but mere action without challenge. There is nothing courageous about overcoming something one has already gotten the best of." His face shifted to a more thoughtful look, as if he were trying to remember something as a revelation dawned on him, and he gave voice to an afterthought. "...In fact, that is the safest thing in the world, and might very well be counted as cowardice in itself."

"Hmm." Tifa sat up next to him and began to look over his shoulder, adding even further to his distraction, if it were possible. "Does that mean there's fighting?"

"It is a war story." His face had softened into an unreadable mask, his frustration well hidden from her. It had taken a decent amount of effort to do so, but he found it easier if he simply let go of his tension. He was even beginning to warm up to her intrigue. Apparently, the elaboration on his original answer had not been enough to sate her curiousity, but that was easily forgiveable; after all, the book would still be there in the morning, and for all he knew, she might not take an interest in it again, or ask him about his own interests for several days after that.

"Oh." She hugged her knees to her chest. "So, is a red badge some honor you get in the military?"

He allowed himself another amused smirk. "You might say that."

Tifa wasn't sure what the humor in his voice meant, but she had run out of things to ask him. He hadn't even raised his eyes to look at her since she'd entered his room, so she knew she couldn't count on him to start another conversation beyond his idle comment on her rather disruptive entrance. Once again, she lowered herself to the sheets and slid her hand underneath the pillow, resting her head. She watched him from her vantage point there, having nothing else to occupy her time other than the chores she had become so sick and tired of, and thinking that perhaps when he had finished his reading for the night, she might be able to talk with him at greater length.

Nevertheless, her heavy eyes betrayed her intentions, and before either one of them had noticed, she had fallen asleep. When Vincent finally did finish his novella, it was to find her curled up on the opposite side of his bed, comfortable as ever. She had even worked her way under his sheets, a move that he had all but ignored, taking it for her usual restless fidgeting. As he set the book down on the nightstand, he considered waking her, but decided against it. Looking content as she did, he would let her sleep. And so, as he could think of nothing else to do but to join her, he surrendered to the invitation her serene expression posed, and fell under the spell of a deep slumber.

When Tifa awoke, it was to the shifting of the man beside her, and a welcome warmth that was not her own. And that feeling, that blessedly wonderful feeling, had started her on the path to dependency. Oh, they had never crossed the line between 'friends' and 'lovers', but Tifa treasured those early morning hours when she would wake early and creep in, sliding beneath the bedsheets and daring to curl into his now familiar body, delving into the heat he afforded. She wouldn't trade them for anything in the world.

The first repeat of the incident he had mistakenly attributed to her inability to sleep. He was partially correct; her need for comfort and companionship were what had kept her awake in the middle of the night. But she had wanted his companionship specifically, had wanted to revisit the feeling from that first morning, and she had waited until daybreak to seek it. She'd cautiously creaked his door open, thinking he would be awake but not wanting to take any chances, only to find him sound asleep. Looking at him, dark lashes flush with pale skin, shallow breath audible against silken fabric and midnight hair tossed over the pillow, she lost any urges she had to return to her own room and simply climbed into bed with him.

She'd descended the stairs a couple of hours later, intent on making breakfast for the day. Neither of the children were awake yet, and she had thought he was asleep as well, but as soon as she had set the eggs on the counter, she heard him follow her downstairs and into the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator and grabbed the carton of orange juice, rummaging around in one of the cabinets for a glass. She turned half-way to face him and smiled slightly, as if she'd been awake for hours already.

"Breakfast," she said simply.

He nodded, taking a sip of his juice. "Hmm," he began, pausing and seeming to lapse into thought. He returned the carton to its place on the cool shelf, before turning with a nonchalant, "I am going to take a shower." And then, on his way up the stairs, she thinking he was finished talking for the moment, he added, "Should you wish to jump into my bed again, I suggest you wait until I am through."

He hadn't turned once to look at her as he said this, merely continuing on his way. She stood there for a moment in shock; she'd been sure he was asleep the entire time, but to be fair, she had fallen asleep herself, and couldn't account for his time then. But she noticed that he didn't seem upset about it. There was no sting in his words; if anything, she thought she could detect a hint of amusement in them. Perhaps that was his mistake, his one fatal error.

He should have told her to never do it again.

She quickly got used to the idea of sleeping next to him. He was a quick and ready fix for her loneliness, even if he did nothing other than stay in one place. At least she knew he would be there when she walked in, and he would still be there when she woke up. And if she lost that innocent intimacy, she knew she would become lonely once again, perhaps unbearably so. It was a personal sort of thing, and yet not inappropriate; he always slept fully clothed in a t-shirt and loose pants. Tifa had never seen any more of his body than that. She wasn't sure if it was coincidence he had been dressed like that the first morning she decided to sneak in, and he stuck with it because of her unpredictability, or if he always slept that way, regardless of whether or not he had to consider her possibly visiting him. Either way, it wasn't long before he had no need to guess, as it soon became an every-night occurrence.

It was on a fateful summer's day that she found herself in over her head.

It was early, much to early for anyone else to be up, she was certain. The sun had not yet made its appearance in the hazy blue skies, and as she crept down the hall quietly as had become her routine, her mind was burning with far too many thoughts to be aware of the shuffling sounds just beyond the door.

That night her memories had conjured up a nightmare the likes of which she hadn't revisited in years. She had thought she was over everything she had been through, and had even been encouraged, at one point, by the truth of all that had happened in the past few years and the fact that they'd survived. Now her strength was being called into question, and she was so preoccupied with her doubts and her insecurities as she opened the door to Vincent's bedroom that she barely registered his figure in front of her until it was too late.

It was the angle at which he was standing, coupled with the mirror on the far wall, that gifted her an unobstructed view of his entire body. His legs were clothed in black dress slacks, and his upper body was bared for her to see. There was a long-sleeved, olive button-down dress shirt laying on the bed next to an undershirt, just out of his reach. He froze upon hearing her enter, knowing it was too late and feeling her eyes roaming all over his body; the uncertainty of what ran through her head at that moment had him feeling ill.

Tifa's hand flew to her mouth, afraid of what might escape her as she felt her ears begin to pound. She was aware of the scars on his arms, as they were usually bare to her when she went to his room. She was aware that beneath the metal and black cloth bandaging that adorned the left was a mass of flesh integrated with machinery, hinges and wiring mingling with what looked to be a moment frozen in time, fleshly claw bare as skin in incomplete transformation. But his chest... his back...

She could see the tiny incisions that littered his skin, where his tormenter had cut through tissue to get at the muscle underneath. He looked like he'd suffered a varied myriad of wounds from a hundred tiny daggers. The marks on his right arm were fewer and farther apart, but his body was another thing altogether. The raised, white scars, less than an inch in length in some places and longer in others, were mapped out all over his pale skin, each one adding a different story to a horrifically twisted volume of tales. The most shocking part of all this is that Tifa was sure she could discern a pattern to the markings; the trails seemed at least to be symmetrical on either side.

Evenly spaced metal clasps adorned his collarbone, stretching nearly from shoulder to shoulder and running down his stomach, disappearing somewhere below his abdomen, beneath the waistline of his trousers. Staples, she recognized. Thick, rough intruders, ragged scar tissue heading off the edges as if the skin had tried to heal over them, but with no success. His back, however, was the most frightening of all.

Tifa had always thought Vincent had an incredibly graceful lean. There was something particular about the way he carried himself that she couldn't quite put her finger on. She'd always found the delicate curvature of his back satisfying to look at as she drifted off to sleep, sharp hipbones and angular shoulders connected by a gentle curve of his spine, limbs hanging from his frame just so; it was unusual to notice such a thing in a man, but one of the unique traits she loved about him.

That same spine now appeared nearly bare. Solid bones threatened to break through the forever raw skin that bridged the impossibly large gash down the middle of his back. It was apparent to her that his back had been split wide open and his spine partially exhumed for prodding and modification, and now all that was left separating his insides from the outer world was a thin layer of scar tissue that stretched tightly over his spinal column, the individual vertebrae painfully obvious. It had never been allowed to heal properly, and the tear stretched from near the nape of his neck, down past his hips to where her eyes could not follow, edges torn up as if they had been ripped open. It was far worse than the gashes on either side of it, Chaos' unmistakable exit wounds.

Tifa felt the hot tears pricking behind her eyes, and she tried to blink them back, but only succeeded in letting them free to spill over her hand.

Vincent's flesh was on fire, and he couldn't take the stifling heat any longer. He walked swiftly over to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer, grabbing three thick cloth straps from inside. She watched with morbid fascination as he wound one around his lower torso, crossing the material tightly at the back and pulling it taut, before bringing the ends back around front and clasping them with a small buckle at his side. If she'd ever brushed up against those buckles before, she hadn't noticed, as they were in a straight line down the side of his body. He repeated this with the other two belts, placing one around his ribcage and another one further up, beneath his arms. And oh, how he resented her for watching.

She wanted to say something, anything at all, as she saw him reach for the undershirt and pull it over his head hurriedly. She'd never realized that the leather belts he'd been accustomed to wearing over his clothes had served a very real function, just like the cloth ones he was now wearing beneath his clothes. It had never occurred to her that the belts had worked as a binder, holding those pieces of him together.

Despite her intentions, her breath was stolen from her, and her throat parched as she fumbled for words. Vincent pulled on his shirt and grabbed his black loafers as he strode past her, long legs carrying him swiftly down the hallway and the stairs, anger in his countenance, and something else she recognized all too well.

He was hurting, and quite badly.

Tifa's heart dropped when she heard the door slam behind him, and she fell back against the wall, hand clutched to her heart and body wracking with sobs. She sunk to the floor, burying her head against her knees. How could she have been so careless? She'd assumed her actions from the nights previous, not expecting a deviation from routine. Never would she have expected to find him fresh out of the shower so early in the morning; it could hardly even be called morning, only a few hours past the middle of the night.

She couldn't help but think she had gotten them into this mess. Maybe their just-barely innocent sleep-overs had finally gotten to be too much for him after all.

Her eyes scanned the room, alighting on his things, taking notice of the imprints in his sheets. Suddenly her world was upside-down, the day all wrong. The bedside light was on, illuminating the room with a soft glow, but when it was so dark outside, the room's reflection in the black glass pane was eerie in light of his absence. She could handle his leave, but somehow the house seemed much emptier, and she much lonelier, when he stormed out in anger.

At a loss for what to do, she picked herself up from the floor and walked over to his bed, crawling beneath the covers and burying her face in the pillow that smelled so much like him. She wrapped the sweat-dampened sheets tightly around herself, imagining that they were smudging away her pain. Tifa found that they were still warm through and through, and soon she had cried herself to sleep.

Sunrise found her curled up in a ball, her face covered in salty residue from her episode earlier that morning. Bright rays shone into her squinting eyes, mocking her, forcing her to adjust her position when she had no want to move at all. Though she wanted nothing more than to lie there for weeks on end, she sat up, rubbing furiously at the slight burn behind her eyelids.

Though the bar was closed that day, she knew she had to get her act together for the kids. At least long enough to get them out of the house without incident.

Tifa rose from the bed and turned off the lamplight, barely noticeable in the daylight, before shuffling down the hallway, running the ends of her hair through her fingers and flipping up the ends, holding them against her lip as she toyed with them. There were so many thoughts running through her head, and she knew she wouldn't be able to get through the day unless she sorted them out. But she would take it one step at a time.

Once she reached her room, she yanked open her closet and rummaged through the numerous hangers, pulling out a white, thinly strapped tank top and a brown, knee-length layered skirt, which flared out a bit as it fell. She dug around in the bottom of the closet, finding brown, suede boots that stretched to her mid-calves and matched the skirt. After throwing those items on, she grabbed a pair of sunshades off the dresser, hanging them on the neck of her shirt as she walked out the door to her room.

Downstairs, she began packing Denzel and Marlene's lunches. The community center was running a children's summer program that year, and on that day, Denzel and Marlene were scheduled to go on a field trip to the historical museum in the inner city, to see the exhibit featuring ShinRa's war with Wutai.

Not two hours before they were supposed to arrive back at the center, she called Barret's phone and asked him to pick them up and take them for the night. And the only thing she had been able to do since then was sit on her barstool, elbows rooted to the counter and head in her hands.

She kept thinking about that morning, and the look he'd been wearing when he'd brushed past her without a word and rushed off to Odin knows where. He'd clearly been upset and needed some time to cool down and think about what had happened. He could have easily pushed her out of his room and packed his things, but he didn't. That didn't necessarily mean that he wouldn't, however. There was still time for that.

She remembered it clearly, his outer shirt still open and his hair still wet as he walked away, as if he was in such a hurry that he didn't have time to worry about them. So embarrassed and so eager to get away from her. And all in the middle of the night, too. Nothing was open at that hour, not even the bars. She didn't know where he was going, what he was planning on doing, or when he would be back. She hadn't a clue how things were going to be when he returned, and she couldn't be sure where his anger was directed, or if he'd ever let her touch him again. One thing she knew; she couldn't afford to lose him.

Tifa had only a few important people enter her life since she'd lost everything several years before in Nibelheim. Barret had been there for her, had helped her get on her feet when she had nowhere to go and no one else to turn to, when she'd sunk so low she'd never be able to pull herself out. He'd been the strong male figure in her life when everything was messed up and at the worst time; she was just coming into her own, when she'd needed her father the most, and he couldn't be there for her. She'd fallen in love with Marlene as she watched her grow, and she'd become like an adoptive mother to her. And now she had Denzel as well. As far as she was concerned, they were her family.

Cid and Yuffie had become two of her closest friends, and they'd grown closer together since the end of their last battles. And she knew that whenever she was feeling down, all she had to do was phone either one of them, and she knew they'd cheer her up in their own lovable way.

And Cloud...

He had survived the same tragedy she had. When he'd shown up at the station, it was as if Tifa had gotten back a small bit of her past that she'd thought she'd lost forever. Being a firm believer in fate, she was sure that it was no coincidence that they'd been brought together. She'd thought the heavens had finally opened and shown her the path they'd laid out for her. She'd since dismissed that as being for the purpose of saving the planet, seeing as things didn't work out between them personally, but it was still nice to have him in her life. It was nice that, whenever she wanted to remember her father, or what it was like growing up at home, there was one person who knew exactly what she was talking about, and who could fill in the gaps with details she'd long forgotten.

Cloud was the link to her past. But Vincent...

Vincent had become her other half, so to speak. He was her sanity, her stability, her focus. Funny to think such things of a man who was admittedly the spitting image of insanity, a man whom she'd caught talking to himself on more than one occassion, or rather, the voices in his head. But it was true; he was the one who she could go to when she felt like falling apart, and he would hold her together. And when he was unable to hold her together, he would let her break in front of him if she wished, and then would help her to pick up the pieces, teaching her a thing or two along the way. Not many people had that kind of patience with her, the kind of patience that would allow her to help herself further down the line, while sticking around to make sure she was getting it right.

Tifa sighed to herself. Vincent had been so many things to her, and she felt that aside from never being able to repay him, she had done him a grievous wrong. It hurt even more that she had come to know him so well, that things had become personal, that he wasn't just a random comrade, a spectre in the past that she could easily dismiss. And it hurt even more, knowing that in the last several months she'd been filled with something she couldn't quite admit to him, because she couldn't find the words to say, and even if she could find the words, they wouldn't be good enough. Not yet.

She backed off her barstool, reaching down to unzip her boots and leave them by the foot of the chair. If he was coming home, she might as well make him feel welcome. She trudged up the stairs, shoulders heavy and mind weary. She knew that with him, any of her actions might be misinterpreted to fit his mindset; if he was mired in thoughts of inadequacy, any straightening up she did might be taken as a sign that she wanted him to leave. But she figured he shouldn't be upset if she only made the bed. She would put fresh towels on top of the mattress when she was finished, so he would know she intended him to use them.

Once in the room, she turned down the sheets and straightened them out, replacing them with care. She didn't want to change them, as that would surely give her away if he still held any hopes that she hadn't figured him out. Even if it made no difference to him, it might disguise the fact that she'd spent the whole morning hiding beneath them. As she was stepping out into the hallway, she noticed the various books sitting on the shelf by the door. Maybe one day, she would convince him to teach her how to pick up on the intricate subtleties he found in them. She'd never been able to divine the many levels on which greater authors wrote, and she had always admired Vincent's striking insight. It was something they could do together, something of his that she could take interest in...

Thinking on all the things she might or might not get to do with him, she knew then that if he should stay, she had better not take it for granted.

Tifa grabbed some fresh towels and a couple of washcloths from the hall closet and returned to the room, setting them on Vincent's bed. She only hoped that he would take the gesture in the way she had meant it; yes, she wanted him to stay, wanted him to keep sleeping there, wanted him to keep showering there. She stepped back, examining the picture the arrangement had made, and then turned from the bed, ready to head back into the hallway and downstairs.

But with nothing to pass the time, and having gotten nowhere nearer to solving her dilemma by sitting and thinking on it, she instead opted to grab one of his books, and settled comfortably onto his bed. It wasn't a very long book, and she reasoned that she could finish it by the time he got home.

Home...

It was dark outside when Tifa awoke, slightly chilled by the air system in the house and still lying atop the sheets. The moon was hidden behind the clouds, and she would have been left in near blackness, if not for the soft light filtering into the hallway from the bar below. She made to roll over for a few more minutes, but she stopped when she heard movement downstairs.

Tifa sprung from the bed and quietly crept down the hallway, leaning against the wall when she reached the stairs. The lower story of Seventh Heaven appeared to be emptied of any sign of life. She decided to investigate further.

When she reached the bottom of the steps, however, she noticed an open bottle of gin sitting on the bar top, along with a tiny bottle of tonic water. She knew she hadn't left that out. Upon closer inspection as she advanced on the inanimate bottles, she found a lime sitting next to them, if it could be called that anymore. The mutilated rind and the sour pulp sitting on the varnished counter were all the reminder she needed that Vincent was finally settling in with her, and she shouldn't have underestimated him.

A soft smile found her mouth, and she crept silently towards the entrance to the bar. Sure enough, she could make out Vincent's dark form slumped against one of the support beams as he sat on the steps out front. She gingerly opened the door, moving in behind him.

A gust of cool air washed over him as he heard the door close, carrying with it the muted scent of apple shampoo, and Vincent knew that Tifa was standing behind him before she had said anything. He turned slightly, acknowledging her presence with a quick glance over his shoulder, before staring back down into the glass he held in his hand. He swirled the contents around absently, ice chips clinking quietly against the sides of the glass as he gathered his thoughts.

Tifa sat down beside him, knees high against her chest as her feet were perched on the very next step down. His own legs were carelessly sprawled out, one up next to him and the other dangling down onto the sidewalk as he was only half-turned to the street, the other half of his body hiding in the shadow beneath the extended roof. She was about to tell him how glad she was that he'd come back that night, when he intercepted the silence.

"...I had... a lot of work done."

That was putting it mildly, and knowing his dry wit, she had expected his face to darken with a bitter smirk at least. But there was nothing there, just a solid wall behind a soft mask, save for the tightness in his eyebrows which gave that wall away, and she couldn't anticipate his reaction to any reply she might have offered, so she kept her mouth shut.

Vincent set the glass down on the step, accompanied by another clink as he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. He hit the pack against his right hand a few times before taking one out and fitting it between tensed lips, lighting it and inhaling deeply. When he did take the cigarette away from his mouth, it was to lift his head back, watching as the smoke he exhaled dissipated in the warm night air.

Tifa was beginning to think that was the extent of his words for the night, when he broke the silence with a sigh.

"A lot of things were...replaced," he continued, putting the cigarette back into his mouth and talking around it. "In order to accommodate my transformations, my body had to be made to withstand violent shapeshifting."

She watched the end of his cigarette peel away as it burned to ash, bright orange and dull grey, dying embers carried away by the wind. She thought she understood; it would be impossible that Hojo could make Vincent into what he was without leaving evidence behind. She bit her lip. "...Organs?"

He flicked some ash onto the sidewalk. "That too...but think smaller." Tifa tilted her head in question as he breathed the air around him deeply and cleared his throat. "I don't believe there is a part of me that he hasn't touched...with exception to the things he held no interest in. My joints...the way my bones hinge on each other...were all changed."

His voice was small, quiet, and monotonous. His calm was eerie even, as realization dawned on Tifa. She briefly wondered how he worked, and as if he read the unspoken questions floating through her head, he answered her.

"...Picture a snake's jaw."

Tifa blinked a couple times, watching his still form smoking dispassionately against the beam, his hand the only thing moving. She understood. It was terrible the way she could picture his ribcage grinding over the knobs of his spine, changing to fit a bigger body. "...Can I ask about your back?"

Vincent scoffed then, flicking more ash onto the pavement. Suddenly he didn't seem so dispassionate anymore, and while she wanted to know, she didn't want to push her luck.

"...I'm sorry if that was out of line. I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine."

She could see the crease in the middle of his forehead where his eyebrows had drawn together. His mouth was tense, and she could see the bitterness in his eyes. It wasn't fine, she knew. That soft-spoken nature of his, that muted tone that she'd grown so fond of, unnerved her in situations like these. But the edge to his voice, though not as frightening as the passive stares of a seemingly emotionless man, had her wondering what horrible things bubbled beneath the surface, tormenting his mind's eye.

Vincent narrowed his eyes, staring out at something invisible in the street. "...The emergence of Chaos' wings destroyed any suturing." Tifa caught the slight movement in his throat. "It was a mute point." He took another drag and lowered his head, smoke trailing out from his nose. "...The binder helped to hold me together until the beast tore through it." He waved a hand dismissively in the backwards direction. "No doubt you noticed the gash was wider between my shoulders."

Tifa nodded, throat suddenly dry and eyes prickling with heat. "I'm sorry..."

"No matter. Now you know." She heard his breath catch in his throat, and she felt the lump grow in her own throat as he leaned over and stubbed the light out, tiny, sparkling flecks snuffed out on the steps before he flicked the filter into the street. His hair fell forward with the action, and she couldn't read his face, but she did hear his sharp intake of breath and the slight huff that followed it. "So."

And then he was up and walking back into the establishment, leaving her to sit there and think about what had passed between them. She felt rather than saw him pass by, as her eyes were trained on the step beside her. She stared intently at the wet ring Vincent's glass had left there. His glass was always full of gin and tonic, with a generous splash of lime and two small, crushed wedges floating inside. He always took lime with the drink. If there weren't any lime wedges ready, he would cut them; he wouldn't drink the beverage without them. It was that peculiar quirk of his, being as particular about the drink as he was, that reminded her that he had tastes and preferences just like any other human being. That quirk was part of the genuine man she had been privileged with seeing every day as of late.

She stayed there for about half an hour, letting the tears fall, since he wasn't there to watch her. She thought about all of the ridiculous, tiny things that made up the very human man she was falling for, not to mention all of the horrible things he had been through. He was strong, and he had almost fooled her into thinking he was invincible. But she knew deep down that he could be just as breakable as she. His heart was most likely in the same state as his back.

Tifa returned inside, stopping at the counter to put the items away, only to find that he had already done so. He'd wiped the counter clean as well, and her boots were missing from the floor. A rueful smile forced its way onto her features, and she wiped at the tears in her eyes. She sighed, resigned to the idea that Vincent's usual civility would be less personal for a while, and turned out the downstairs lights, approaching the stairs.

She found herself breathing heavily, her heart pounding.

She didn't know what kind of state he had been in when he'd left her outside all by her lonesome. She didn't know what the morning held for her, what would happen if she ran into him in the middle of the night, or if there was anything she could do to make the next several says easier. Not quite ready to face the music, and wishing there were some way she could put her life on pause, if just for one night, she sank to her seat on the bottom step and slowly let her eyes adjust to the dark.

An hour later, it came to her.

Vincent didn't try to stop her when he heard her side-stepping around the towels he'd angrily thrown on the floor, nor when he felt her weight on his mattress, the sheets shifting over his skin as she crawled beneath them, body joining his in bed. He didn't even mention to her that his bed had already been warm when he'd made it to his room. He also didn't need to open his eyes to be aware of her proximity; he only lay perfectly still as she settled behind him, boldly draping one arm over his waist, and he could feel her hot breath on his neck. When she didn't say anything, he assumed she would be on him in the morning, so he decided to head her off from the start.

"...Trouble sleeping?"

Tifa could almost sense his bitter smirk, his narrow eyes. She didn't like the implications in that sentence, the assumption that she couldn't handle the images that had been burned into her mind that morning and the idea that he would be the thing her nightmares were made of. She wanted to smack him upside the head, but instead she settled for a blank, "I haven't been yet."

"Ah. You know, I hear warm milk is good for that," he said matter-of-factly, "though the taste is rather-"

"Shut up." Vincent felt her lips brush against the back of his neck, felt her mouth form the words on his skin, and he was stunned into silence by her command. If that wasn't enough of a shock, her next words had him feeling a pang of guilt as well. "If I'm not welcome, you can just say so."

Her tone was resolved, and he felt somehow compelled to steer her away from the notion that he didn't want her around. He sighed tiredly, shifting closer into his pillow. "...I don't understand why you came back."

"Because I have something to tell you, and I think you need to hear it."

He was interested in hearing whatever had given her such confidence, and he prepared himself for whatever words might come.

"Well?"

"I'm listening."

There was silence for a moment, as she gathered the thoughts she had put together on her trip down the hallway. "Vincent..." she said in earnest, "I've honestly never seen scars like yours." Not only the physical scars, she reminded herself. "And," she was quick to continue before any thoughts of insult could sink into him, "I can't begin to understand what you went through to get them. But you can't walk on eggshells around me. You shouldn't be ashamed of them, Vincent." He felt her eyelashes flicker against his neck. "...They're proof of how human you really are, how deeply you can feel...and that despite everything you've been through, you're still here."

More silence.

"Vincent?" And then...

He shifted, moving away from her to turn and meet her face to face. The look he gave her was skeptical, if not accusing. "...Been reading much?"

Tifa's eyes opened fully and a soft smile graced her mouth. "Maybe." Then her face turned from gentle to serious. "But that doesn't make it any less true. I could have figured that out on my own, without reading the book. It just reminded me is all."

Vincent shifted again, laying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. "...Thank you."

"Huh?" She watched his impossibly long lashes fall over his face. "For what?"

"For not making this bigger than it has to be." He opened his eyes, looking at her, and she saw an uneasy kind of gratitude in them. And, if she looked hard enough, she thought she saw a small, sad smile tugging at one of the corners of his mouth. She couldn't help but wonder if he was only speaking about the scars. His eyebrows rose in question. "Is that all?"

She smiled. "That's all. Goodnight, Vincent." Then, on impulse and surprised at herself even as she did so, she rose up on her elbows and planted a kiss on the side of his face. She'd overestimated the added height her position gave her, as she was laying lower than he, and the kiss had landed a little too close to the bottom corner of his mouth for her to hope he would write it off.

She landed back on the pillow, her eyes closed and wearing a peaceful expression. But it was all feigned, for behind those lids her mind was going a million miles a minute. After a few moments, she heard him shift again next to her, and when she thought it safe she chanced a look at him, expecting to meet with the relaxed curve of his ivory neck she fell asleep to most nights. Instead, she found him facing her again, eyes glinting back at her in the dark, contemplation hiding behind them as he passively studied her features.

"...What?" She felt her muddled brain drown beneath a flooding heat. She managed a nervous smile and timidly asked, "Are you going to kick me out for that?" honestly hoping that he wouldn't. And she knew he could tell that she wanted to stay; she imagined her pounding heart nearly emanated a pulsing signal from her body that would give her away.

His eyes narrowed a bit as he leaned closer, brows drawn together and a strangely amused smile ghosting across his face. "...Are you afraid I might?"

It had only been one drink, but she could smell the warmth that lingered in his bones, and something unfounded but there nonetheless told her that she had found the right moment, and she didn't want to spend the next several months agonizing over the wait for another one. She swallowed her pride, trying not to think of the consequences, and telling herself that if she could maybe convince him with the sincerity of the action, then he might forgive her for taking advantage. She knew she would have to make things clear to him one day, and it was only a matter of time, so she might as well go with the present opportunity.

A rush of air left her chest at the overwhelming relief of her decision to act as her gentle parted mouth crushed against his acid grin. She caught his clipped breath deep in her throat, feeling his body's sudden constriction as his smile faltered in astonishment, but determined to bring him down with her. She threaded her hand in his satiny hair, pulling herself to him, brushing her palm against his face, and she broke away just long enough to nudge his nose with her own. When his mouth opened reflexively, she caught his bottom lip in her own mouth's embrace, and was pleasantly surprised to feel his rigidity melting away as he accepted her glistening kiss.

As he relaxed into her body, the soft and steady hand that had found its way into his pitch-colored hair fell to the nape of his neck, fingers curling and uncurling as she cautiously slipped her tongue into his mouth. She met with velvety wet muscle and the citrus-permeated taste of aged juniper, masked with a thin veil of ash. As her tongue slipped over his, gliding smoothly across the firm flesh with soft and lazy strokes, she felt hesitant, cloth-wrapped fingers settle their way onto the curve of her hip-bone, and she pressed herself further into him until he was lying beneath her.

His naked hand moved to the back of her head, and he lifted up from the cushioning down feathers beneath him, straining his neck to get his full taste of her. She then became more forceful, pushing him back down with hard lips until he was sunk into his pillow, willfully surrendered as she returned her softer breed of control. Her feverish breath broke her away when she shifted atop him and froze, feeling his needful ache bruising her pelvis.

With her mouth disconnected from his, her earlier apprehension rushed back in full force, but her nerves were stilled when she felt his hand fall from her dark strands to gently trail her cheek. Looking down at him, she saw the unguarded hope in his eyes, even as she realized she was clutching at one of the thick straps through his shirt; she knew then that she had made the right decision. As Tifa let the diligent touch of Vincent's slender fingers calm the butterflies in her chest, she couldn't hide the slight tremor in her growing smile or her shaken reply as she closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to his, releasing her tension in a disquieted breath.

"...Terrified."

**End**

_Final Fantasy VII and its characters © 1997 Square-Enix Co., Ltd.  
The Red Badge of Courage © 1895 Stephen Crane_

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_**Note: **This whole binder idea - and what you've just seen spawned from it, guts, glory and all - was based on a personal experience of a family member. So I'd appreciate it if other writers kept it personal and didn't pick it up and use it. Thank you._


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